The Grindelwald Campaign
by ChuckTheElf
Summary: Albus Percival Wulfric Dumbledore's fame for defeating Grindelwald is a matter of legendary history. But few cover that era ... until now.
1. Beginnings

Dumbledore began his incantation; power flowing through an exponential growth while the chant progressed. The weighty, approving gaze of the familiar, one that chose him, felt heavy on his back. It still was a marvel; that such a creature had chosen him. _Him_! Its presence was the last piece, the final thaum pushing him along the path to violence. Things had gone too far, he'd studied far too long, hoped too much – and what had Gellart done? Madness. Pure, self-absorbed madness. Wars had been fought before, the Great War had stunned wizardkind like nothing ever had. But this war was even greater; terrifying in its animosity.

The phoenix chirred at him, a chiding noise that encouraged him all the same. Where the creature had come from, Dumbledore had no clue. No one knew from where the powerful creatures hailed; the small amounts of interaction they'd shared so far gave him suspicions that lack of knowledge was purely intentional. The birds were near-human intelligence, if more in tune with their baser needs; it was a blessing their nature was so Light-based, else they'd have been a true Terror. A fire-wielding being that teleported through all barriers, lifted immense burdens, and possessed reflexes beyond a nundu?

He smiled at the encouragement, before returning to his preparations – a two minute rest between the descant and following kyrie designed for that very purpose. Red hair, long and luxuriant tied itself in a shorter style, one flick of his wand neatly dressing his facial hair into the ancient Viking braids. Runes carved into the rings surrounding each braided strand ensured they would not fly into his face during battle. A common tactic enjoined soldiers to crop their hair short: not he. For such a foe, he would go to war in the style he'd studied.

Completely. Or not at all.

"Fawkes, I've never heard of the muggles with such weapons." Dumbledore checked his notes, making sure the timing would be right. They'd ventured into battle again and again, but hard training brought easy fighting. "They are advancing far faster than they once did, some of their work is nearly – magical."

The avian moved into Dumbledore's sight. Blood-red feathers, a deeper crimson than his own auburn hair rose in a crest. Bright, intelligent eyes studied his own, before the phoenix sang a note, agreeing.

"Godric always said they would be clever. But then he was just repeating what Rowena told him." Another voice spoke up, this time in words all could understand. "What's been done – is a true Evil. Creation used to Destroy. He is growing more powerful every hour, Albus. He must be stopped."

Dumbledore glanced at the Sorting Hat. Its old fabric looked far older than the youthful appearance of the phoenix, and yet it had existed long before the other's brim was a mere plant. "I swear it. I will stop him."

The hat eased down on its brim. "I know you will, boy. As I did for Godric, so I'll do for you."

A fierce cry echoed through the room, at once softer than a baby's sigh, yet louder than a thunder crack. Fawkes rose, beating its wings. Fierce eyes glared, reminding him.

Quickly, Dumbledore resumed the chant. He'd almost missed the fourth stanza, the final cadence. A last minute adjustment, and he donned the battle robes. Anger began to fill his soul secondary benefits of the chant, not the puerile, faded imitation Dark Wizards prattled about. This was true Righteous anger; Rage. Fury. _Wrath._ All of the words embracing a small part of the emotion, some miniscule aspect without completing the entire sensation – Anger at Gellart's betrayal, rage at the noble causes prostituted into loathsome practice, an all-encompassing _fury_ at the man he'd once considered a brother, forcing the world to war.

Raising a hand, he caught Fawke's talons, slight pain of their points lost in his rage. Had he beheld a mirror, he would have seen a startling image: a man with powerful build, geared for battle in combat robes, a monstrous bird of prey swooping low over one shoulder. But it wouldn't have been the battle-torn clothing, or even the sword belted to his side, but the sheer power radiating from the two. At that moment, reality itself bent to their will, and the world shifted.

[Enter Location, Major Battle Field]

The combination of Phoenix Fire and the innate strength he bore rendered the simple Apparation into an explosive entry worthy of legend. In return, the battlefield rocked his senses with the sounds of explosions – _where_ had the Muggles learned to encapsulate Exploding Hexes in mere canisters of metal? The science behind mundane means boggled the mind – he'd think of that later. When the red haze lifted, and the urge to disembowel every opposing force subsided.

A hex, violet hued and trickling sparks of ultra-marine hurtled past his head. Dumbledore felt the Sorting Hat shift its weight, tilting his own head to one side, just keeping a fraction of an inch between it and the hex. Throbbing power, necromantic motifs drilling through the lower registers, filled the ether. Faint moans, audible to even the Muggles, resonated on a spine-tingling level. In response, he fired a Blasting Drill, siege magic designed against fortifications, ignoring how the caster vanished in a multi-colored flash.

Dumbledore took a moment to observe the field, using the rage pounding through every nerve to burn the battlefield into his mind. A long stretch of water, filled with more ships than many Pure-bloods believed possible expanded to the horizon at his back. In the other direction, barriers of earth twisted across the tortured landscape, convulsions wringing protection from the largest source imaginable – the earth. The heat intensified in his gullet, when he saw Grindlewald's forces, the _Magier Krieger Unglaublich,_ on the eastern flank; their shielding bore his distinctive markings, raw power and efficient channeling. Their minions lurched forwards in waves, _inferi_ , soul-less, mindless dead, animated for their bidding. Nearer, he could see Muggles opening fire with their strange wands, yet each burst of flame held the potential to kill even a Wizard. Nearer still two members of the _Sorcier Magnifique_ , French volunteers, did what they could, defending what seemed to be an entrenched Canadian division. Not enough.

Fury burned hotter in his heart. Dumbledore gestured, drying out the ground by his feet, granting solid footing. It took concentration, but he forced himself to turn to the magicals before turning his attention to the enemy. "You two, are you hurt?"

One of the men, slightly better dressed than the other, spun about face, wand spitting a curse. His eyes grew wide as it rebounded harmlessly from Dumbledore's wand-tip – spell-swatting incorporated multiple disciplines, saved for the Dueling Arena except by consummate masters. " _Anglais? Vous êtes ici pour aider?"_

He made the mental twist, chafing at the time loss. _"Oui, je suis le professeur Dumbledore. Où est l'action?!"_

The other man laughed. It rang bitter, empty. " _Maintenant, ils envoient des professeurs d'école. Rentrez chez vous et préparez-vous à apprendre l'allemand."_

Translation failed to remove the rancorous fear. Dumbledore fought down a sarcastic response. There would be no information from these men. But there were mages on the battlefield, betraying centuries of Secrecy – that would stop.

"Then follow me. I will not stop until Berlin." Technically, he'd stop when Grindlewald finally came out and faced him. But that held too many variables.

Leaving the two weary magicals behind, Dumbledore stepped forwards. Transfiguring firm footing took no thought at all, a negligent wave towards his intended path, and a further warding gesture, keeping away _inferi_. Then, he set to work.

Waves of magic pulsed. Dumbledore used those motions, sending Light with them. The power grew, feeding off his intent, until it became a nigh-unstopping force. He lifted his eyes to Grindlewald's men. They saw him, the spells sent his way proved that; but they did not move. They had been well-trained.

Dumbledore stalked onward, bursts of energy detonating on every side. Curses flew at him, dispelled harmlessly against debris that flashed into place. Each piece of destroyed material shivered under his regard, becoming something – _more_. Something aggressive, hints of animalistic intent mixed with the latent fear only the intangible could instill. Parts of a Muggle vehicle blasted into pieces reformed into a mountain of metal teeth and claws, sent leaping into the _inferi_. Fallen trees twisted into nonsensical limbs, stones rolled into piles of ambulating barriers. Exploding hexes damaged several, destroying more – but their loss meant nothing. Broken material was still more material – and reformed into more things.

No, not _things._ Dumbledore corrected himself. Mere objects couldn't bring the sense of horror he wanted. Creating imitations of living creatures would be easier, both in power and intellect. But creating something unknown, using imagination to deliberately mock the viewer's sense of reality – that took _genius._ Something else Grindlewald had twisted.

A host of fallen saplings rose around Dumbledore. He didn't spare them a glance, as they shifted color, becoming steel-gray, ten splitting off and shredding into hundreds of razor-sharp knives. Wings grew, and the blades flashed overhead. Counter-transfigurations rose against him, clumsy animations built on formulaic derivatives. He disintegrated them in a burst of concentration, seizing their power and obliterating it with his mind.

Discipline; Gellart's handiwork. Crossbows had destroyed the old _chevaliers,_ disciplined mobs against an older era. But Alchemy took that discipline, and elevated it to _art._

At a flick of his wand, the earth obeyed his summons. Mud, thick and deep dried, chunks of the earth ripping themselves free to be flung at the _Magier Krieger Unglaublich_. Their shields changed from full-powered clarity to cloudy-strains. Silently, Dumbledore cast the Anti-Apparition jinx, layering it under a dozen charms designed to confuse and debilitate. The lines of earth, defending the german troops began to move, filling in the trenches built to protect, but granting death. In another lifetime he'd shy from such a thing, but the Muggles had squandered the many chances he'd offered them, by not participating.

Necromantic magic, a kind forbidden for centuries, shot at him, repelled by the flame-shield bursting into existence. He'd loved fire as a child, could watch it burn for hours. Growing up, there had been a myriad uses, studying it in the blood of dragons with his old Mentor.

More hostile transfiguration attempts failed to seize control, discoloring the ground beneath his feet. Losing patience, Dumbledore conducted a Permanent Transfiguration, altering the earthen barriers from smooth walls into long spikes digging inwards – the shields failed a moment later, _inferi_ collapsing as their creators died.

"Gellart!" Fawke's inferno-like power swelled his voice, making it thunder. His wandarm drew back, then whipped forwards; pure force blew through a new platoon of _inferi_ , sending their body parts flying. Their controllers, far behind in yet another defensive formation rained spellfire on him, magic repelled by the sheer force of his anger. "Face me, coward! I'll destroy every bunker, every soldier you hide behind! Gellart! _Gellart!_ _ **GELLART!**_ _"_


	2. Lieutenants

No one really _concentrated_. That was the key issue; when he'd heard the art of sword-smithing took two decades to learn, and a lifetime to master, he'd decided to really apply himself. Studying metallurgy – muggle and magical – basic muggle chemistry, advanced transfigurations and the arcane muggle study of thermodynamics had been exhilarating. Thrilling in a way he'd rarely experienced since that unfortunate incident at Durmstrang.

Sadly, once the preparations had been made, the actual practice needed a paltry five months. Six, when he'd turned to Nippon-steel in desperation.

The man rose to his feet, striding to a window. Muggle clothing allowed a confident stride, commanding heels clicking against solid stone floor. It was strange, how muggles reacted in different ways to certain spells. Officially, no experimentation was allowed – yet the fools thinking they held power rarely exercised it. All it had taken was a single odd reaction, and his focus had a new direction.

 _"Message from Berlin,"_ a nameless individual faded into view, his features obscured by the protective enchantments in the quartz crystal. _"It's entitled_ urgent _."_

He ground his teeth. _Everything_ from the arrogant muggle was urgent. From advice on attacking Britain – an endeavor he'd discouraged, to the battles through Ukraine, down to what color _shoes?_ The muggle was insane. But that was his fault, partially.

"Send it through." There was no point in thinking on the past, _He_ had taught that lesson well. How many messages had been sent? How many apologies? All refused, burned, re-directed. And their talks had gone so well, the only mind capable of matching his own. In truth, he still missed those talks. Debating the finer points of runic interpretations had advanced his comprehension by leaps and bounds, just _talking!_

A small box glowed red. The man paused before the window, watching carefully as colors cycled through the spectrum until a neutral green remained in place for over fifteen seconds. Assassination through muggle means would be an interesting learning experience, but waste precious hours curing. Yet it appeared the muggle respected him enough to refrain from testing him – refreshing.

The paper square opened in his hand, unfolding like a chrysanthemum. Ah, this was from the _other_ muggle, the Japanese leader.

Perusing its contents took a bare heartbeat. Contemplating the intended meaning, as well as the accidental, stretched his imagination for another heartbeat.

The man took up a brush; manners took minimal effort for the rewards provided. Addressing someone in their native tongue gave a mark of respect any could recognize. The strands of his brush glided across rice-paper, a medium kept on his desk for that very purpose.

Finished, the man blew gently on the ink, then waved a hand over the paper, finishing the charm. Wandless magics were incredibly potent, difficult to control. Naturally, he'd needed to master _that_ aspect as well. The recipient of his genius folded into a paper crane, the result of another wandless charm, flying back into the box. Its recipient would know whom had sent the message, when the crane flew out of its matching partner across the planet. No signature was needed.

Back to contemplation then.

German vehicles, the muggle equivalent of dragons, soared past his window – a step to the right gave him a ground-based view of their armored carriages. There were so many variants, almost as if some twisted mind had copied wizarding tactics. Perhaps that german muggle was actually a squib? The blood tests had displayed negative results, but what other ways could the man see thestrals, resist the _Imperius_ , and react so oddly to compulsion charms? Then there was that empathic _legilmancy_ the man constantly emanated.

He shook his head. Even he would have trouble entrancing a full square filled with muggles. The lack of magical ability rendered more effort on the part of the caster; he could _do_ it, but only through great effort. Yet young Hitler had grown from a fragmentary group to a powerful leader, decimating all opponents in a miasma of charm, arrogance, and misconstrued logic.

And the muggles loved it.

Another shift brought his map into view, the massive construct filling an entire wall. Portions of it matched the table at its side, tiny figures moving along random paths, some stopping others starting, all behaving in ways he'd expected. The armies of Germany were occupying France, although their feeble defense had barely been worth calling a _battle_. Dunkirk hadn't quite behaved as expected, but the end result had seen the continent under control.

Russia – despite his warnings – now deployed a full million muggles in the field. Their magical counterparts had not been subjugated under communism, retaining the organization and full training of Russian Battle Wizards. Had young Hitler misunderstood the warning? Generals Winter and Cold were a formidable duo, approaching their third century, yet as hale as their ninth decade. Certain bloodlines carried gifts; longevity was a treasured benefit of a rare few.

"Did he think I would journey with his armies?" He wondered aloud. "Yes, I could crush them. But that would leave the north front open to the Danish, and the Italians still have teeth."

Left unspoken was _His_ approach. The man that had once been a friend, a companion, a like-minded genius. No one could stand _His_ techniques; _His_ brother came close in pure power, but no one could match _Him_ for genius-level intellect.

Well, except himself. They'd dueled once, and the two had not been able to defeat him. Now, he had the _Deathstick_ , the _Mortis Alium_. No one could defeat the Elder Wand in open battle; legends suggested otherwise, but those few exceptions had all been written by the victor. He knew better than to believe such obvious chicanery.

"Albus Dumbledore," the name trailed off his tongue. Once they were friends. Now they were enemies.

 _"Sir,"_ the crystal faded to life once more. _"New report coming in from France, Champagne district."_

Gellart Grindlewald accepted the report, ignoring safety precautions. _'New Report'_ indicated a personal update. _'Coming in'_ held significance that only five people knew. ' _District'_ was the safe-sign for intact security. Wasting time after so many precautions only gave entropy a chance – something he had no intent of doing.

The paper gave statistics, lists of figures recorded. Romans had ruled the world with bits of paper, he could at least keep track of the entire front with them.

"Hmmm," the numbers told a story different from what the muggle records indicated. "Albus, you sly dog. How many of my men have you been _confounding_? So much for the moral high ground."

His gaze slid lower, and the smile grew smaller. "Five divisions removed. Fifteen miles lost, and two crack Assault squads captured. _Captured?_ "

Only one man possessed the requisite knowledge to cancel his self-immolation enchantments. _No one_ captured his soldiers. They fought until death, and after death rose again to fight. _Inferi_ , zombies, automatons – the words for the same thing were endless. But it seemed Albus had finally snapped. Good. An angry foe was a man without complete control, a fallacy of the more emotional Light Side practitioners.

"So it begins." Grindlewald began searching his map. With Albus on the field, they would meet in battle sooner or later – with planning, the field would be _his_ to choose, not _His._ People so rarely took the time to concentrate.


	3. Meetings

He knew exactly where he was. More importantly, he knew _when_ he was, an important factor to consider. Others paid attention solely to the where, perhaps also considering the number of tools involved. But He didn't need to do that, awareness in battle had become a full-fledged habit now, nearly five decades of practice attuning every sense to threats.

"Sir, reports are in. The Ruskies are pushing the Eastern front, confirmed. The main army is retreating."

Albus Dumbledore kept his eyes on the treeline. Ignorance lead to loss, loss lead to retreat. "Grindelwald?"

The man swallowed. "Target Alpha – he – he is in the field."

A slow smile, long absent from his mind, appeared. "Good. He is not where you expected, behind his assault mages, is he."

"No sir, he's … alone."

Dumbledore's head snapped up fast enough to send his tied-back hair whiplash. " _Alone?_ "

"Yessir."

His Phoenix familiar glittered through the air, coming down for a landing on his shoulder. Dumbledore was glad for the leather reinforcement under the robe; the bird weighed next to nothing, but his talons were goblin-blade sharp. The inquisitive bird chirped once, then seemed to realize the situation. Fire erupted at his wingtips, tightly controlled but fearsome. The chirp turned into a rising shriek, passing beyond human hearing in an instant.

"Yes Fawkes," Dumbledore absently petted the enraged familiar's blazing crest. "It's likely a trap. No Wells, civilians on every side. Perhaps a diversion to draw him off?"

The soldier manning his radio gulped nervously, eyes looking everywhere but the bare fingers stroking live flames. "Sir, General Patton's divisions are about twenty miles south of Target Alpha. If you – "

"No." Dumbledore growled. "He and young Moody need to keep the Panzers away. Allow heavy mechanized what-do-you-call-its closer, and the main body will be lost."

The young soldier stopped looking at unburned hands. "Sir! A single Panzer division wouldn't even make a dent in – "

"Muggle contraptions aren't the _only_ thing that throw fire," Dumbledore growled down. "No, this is Gellert. If I go, the southern flank is exposed. If I _don't_ go, the northern flank is lost. If we shift reserves, there will be nothing with which to counter. Even if we send the _muspelheim_ -begotten flying machines, he'll have a plan. That's just how he is."

Fawkes sang a quiet melody, heartening and free. The incandescence cooled, darkening his feathers to the color of fresh blood.

"True," Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I would occupy his focus. But what would his plan be to counter inattention?"

The fire bird's vocal cries grew harsh, wings beating enough so that one wing buffeted Dumbledore's auburn-colored head multiple times.

"Enough! All right! You've made your point!" The wizard couldn't shy away, not with the phoenix's claws deeply embedded in his robe. That didn't stop him from a shimmying sort of dance, twisting his neck in vain to avoid the irritated avian.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, he set his shoulders. And winced. "I need a priority message to General Eisenhower. Tell him to begin: _Flight of the Valkyries_."

The soldier didn't bat an eye, spinning to the radio. His fingers whirled on the dials, flicking switches as certain as a Rune-master's etchings. The _speakers_ crackled a discharging static, like a poorly-attuned Scrying – it amazed Dumbledore that the contraption worked at all, let alone to a point where muggles could speak instantaneously over so far a distance. Old theories, partially buried from their association with his foe, began to glow once more. He returned his attention to the present as the soldier evidentially heard something, and began to speak. "Priority One-One-Aye from Valhella Turkey: Eye-Dee is Granger Five, Echo Foxtrot. Flight of the Valkyries is a go. Repeat: Flight of the Valkyries is a go. Over."

Controlled rage burned through Dumbledore's veins. In no time, there would be a reckoning; a reckoning indeed.

"I will call for you," he stroked Fawke's feathers, gazing deep into the madder-red eyes. "You know why."

The phoenix mantled, thick outer feathers creating an impression of an angry fire plug. Not that anyone would tell him as such. His harsh cry croaked through the air, death given voice.

"I know, I know." Dumbledore clenched a fist, letting the youthful muscles bulge under the mystical bird's grip. "But it is better for him to have false confidence than betray all evidence out of hand.

Fawkes rose high, extending his keen gaze at the carnage surrounding their encampment. Utter destruction lay in every direction, entire forests laid waste. Without looking, Dumbledore knew of the wreckage; towns that would never be lifted up, family lines now extinct beyond resurrection. Manors standing for millennia were gone, knowledge buried in secret places – vanished forever. All because of one man.

"It is a small hope," he admitted. "But it is our best chance. There are some minor tricks on _my_ part as well, you know."

Grudgingly, the phoenix bobbed acknowledgement. A faint pressure on his arm gave warning, and the firebird rose into the air on thunder. Just a fraction of an inch before reaching safety, Fawkes flashed out, fire singing the edges of his short beard.

Grumbling to himself, Dumbledore checked his own pouches. Six decades of study lay behind their creation, and he'd gladly repeat it if it'd meant the lack of need that necessitated their existence in the first place.

"Sir, are you really going to face that, advisor?" Lieutenant Granger – that was his name Dumbledore remembered – had his earpiece off, looking worried.

"Dark wizard, yes," he responded. "It should be over today."

The man stood, facing him. He was of medium height, for an Englishman, with curled brown hair and an intelligent look that pierced layers with ease. Slowly, one hand came up in a salute. "Good luck, sir. You are truly a great man."

Dumbledore felt his rage lessen, if for a moment. It wouldn't truly leave him until Gellart was gone. Such was his oath.

Silently, he extended his wand, and performed the first spell he'd need.

[France, Valenciennes]

The sky pealed a burst of thunder as Dumbledore apparated into the city proper. Maps, observers, and a past history in extensive travel rendered nearly any point in Europe within his grasp. The city had been a lovely town nearly a century ago – his parents had once taken the family there on holiday. Now he looked at what had once been a pleasant town, and felt his rage grow exponentially.

"Hello, Albus."

Dumbledore's wand rose and fell in a quick, snakelike movement, expelling a carriage-sized fireball.

The incendiary evaporated, its dazzling brightness dispelling the last of an early morning fog. A tall, thin man stood in its wake, a wand of his own twirling a slow pattern. Like Dumbledore, his features seemed distinguished, that knife's edge between youth and elder. But his eyes burned cold, darker than most, and wore an apparently military uniform – a stark contrast to Dumbledore's more traditional battle robes.

"The city is my hostage, Albus. Listen to what I have to say, or it will die."

Dumbledore needed only to stretch out his senses a brief moment to know his former ally told the truth. Muggles and wizards, their signatures painfully obvious, flared and faded, only to flare again as they tried escaping their own homes. But he could see the marks, strong runes forcing the doors to act as walls, windows impervious to blasting spells. This was magic at its worst, sealing houses shut, compelling or compulsion-effect forcing inhabitants to remain – all that was needed was a quick incantation, or a prepared charm.

"You've truly gone _Dark_ , Gellart." Hatred embodied Dumbledore's every word.

Grindelwald smiled politely in return. "And you have gone _Light_. We were Gray once, truth was neither Light nor Dark. But we learned the truth about truth, did we not? You and your family – I and my logic. We are not so different, you and I, even seventy years later."

Sparks hissed from Dumbledore's wand, melting tiny pits in the cobblestones. "Say what you came to say, Traitor."

Sighing, Grindelwald reached into a pocket, his hand returning into sight with a modest-sized flask. "Veritaserum is a mere compulsion. Strong, but a sufficiently trained Occlumens may twist its effects. Perhaps your training under Flamel will identify this compound?"

Dumbledore caught the lobbed object one-handed, the other poised to wield offensive magics. The container itself was unremarkable, a tin sided rectangle with a tiny screw-on cap. He'd seen various officers carry similar flasks, filled with spirits of their choice. Young Moody had been taken with the idea, and now carried his own Ever-Full version – not that muggles could guess.

With an elaborate flourish, his foe's wand ended its lazy circles, held it loosely between two fingers. "I'd make an oath as to its contents, but your Light sensibilities would not trust me. As surety, I will release two families of your choice. When you verify what it is, I will release another two families. And once you agree to speak with me under its influence, I will permit your choice of a quarter of the city to depart."

The auburn-haired wizard felt his anger intensify. Carefully he examined the flask. No runes were carved into its structure, nor buried within its metal. The only charms working on its contents were stability enchantments, utterances to preserve less-combustible liquids. Even that bore little taint of Darkness – over the years he'd perfected wandless senses, and even Grindelwald wouldn't be able to deter them. There were no compulsions, no Soul-based magics, not even owner protections. It seemed to be just what it looked like: a flask full of a liquid.

More careful still, Dumbledore cast a stasis charm, ready to envelope the thing with a shield in case it reacted. But nothing happened – and he finally lifted its cap.

The scent wafted through the open air; filtered through a protective spell known only to Flamel and himself. They'd co-developed the Hazard Protection field, and it had saved their lives multiple times. But the scent was familiar, not the cloying odor of the mental-debilitates, but a clean smell of the truth compulsions. Its clear appearance, combined with the mild viscosity gave a rough idea of base material. The odor of pine indicated brewing techniques used only for mental stimulants, but the truly confirming aspect lay in its burning feel.

" _Vere absolutum_." Dumbledore mused, "Nicholas thought all of the last samples were destroyed, by Edward the Confessor. I had my doubts of course."

"Of course," Grindelwald echoed, a note of fondness almost detectable. "You always had your suspicions. I hear your home country school had a bit of excitement a few years ago – did you ever decipher what kept petrifying your students?"

Strong fingers tightened on the flask. "What do you want, Gellart?"

Another put-upon sigh heaved from somewhere around the Dark wizard's toes. "I will drink the _Vere absolutum_ , then you will drink. Or vice versa, I care not. Then we will ask each other our questions, and I will tell you why you are wrong about my being wrong."

Irritation flooded through Dumbledore's nerves. Throwing caution to the winds, he threw back his head and swallowed several large gulps of the liquid. Cold chills ran down his arms, meeting his spine, rebounding to the outer limits of his consciousness. Buying a single mouthful of the liquid would have cost more than half the Malfoy fortune; but one of its unique properties forced the second drinker to imbibe the same quantity as the first.

Capping the precious liquid, Dumbledore threw it back at the Dark wizard. "Your turn."

Grindelwald hefted the flask, taking its measure. "Never one to go half-way, were you?" The flask went upright; the sounds of gulping crossing the stone-work street.

Finally the man finished, screwing the cap back on with a metallic creak. No bystanders watched, but the tension could be felt from afar, the heavy presence a storm gave, long before its actual form arrived.

"The people." Dumbledore growled. The ritual-enhanced rage burned in his chest, aching to be freed.

Grindelwald winced, squinting at the ground. "Powerful magic; I do not believe the descriptions quite served it justice."

"The _people."_ Dumbledore growled again, his wand lowering into place.

"Fine, fine. Always impatient, weren't you?" Grindelwald put two fingers to his lips and shrilled out a whistle, louder than humanly possible. "Which quarter do you desire removed?"

Dumbledore hesitated. Such a choice hadn't been in his plans; would there be significance to which quarter left first? If he had his way none would be in danger, but assured safety meant something completely different than _probable_ safety.

"Did you not study the map? I am surprised at you, Albus." Grindelwald started walking up the street, angling his path across its broad length. " _Know your enemy, and yourself, and you shall not lose in a hundred battles._ Sun-Tzu, I prefer the original editions of course. It loses – heart, I suppose, in the later translations. If I might suggest the southwest quarter? Mostly residential, women and children for the most part. The men are all attempting to guard the more sensitive places I suppose – as if there were anything of value left in a French city."

Dumbledore kept his equanimity. "Very well, the southwest quarter. You gave good advice."

No one needed to say the words _this time_ , but the impression was made all the same.

Grindelwald whistled once more, and a stream of black-garbed men erupted from behind a street. He gave them a lazy wave, which they seemed to understand immediately, running to obey. One man however, remained behind, a murderous glare aimed at Dumbledore. Grindelwald ignored the man, until it became obvious he would not leave of his own volition, and addressed him directly. "You have your orders, Colonel."

The man continued expressing his hatred visually. "Herr Grindelwald, this man is a threat. He destroyed mine cousins two weeks nigh!"

"And," Grindelwald delivered a harsh look. "He is here. I will deal with things in my own time. Now go."

"But! He – _roooaaak. Croooak,_ " An eruption of sound finished the man's sentence, terminating in a basso repetition, more commonly expected to be surrounded by algae.

"Gellert!" Dumbledore's wand drooped in shock. "He – a toad? You turned your own man into a toad?"

"A frog, Albus – much more humane. No warts. Not to worry though, he will go in my pond. I have many frog comrades there." Grindelwald's hand closed around the small green amphibian, lifting it to eye level to meet a freezing-cold expression. "And if he disobeys once more, I shall put him in a far less hospitable environment. Perhaps a concrete floor, where the _Führer's_ men have marching practice."

The frog gave a single, terrified croak before vanishing in a puff of smoke. Grindelwald's expression calmed, returning to the bland, mild form it had previous. "Now, I have held up to my bargain. Will you listen now? Often have I wanted to speak with you, but circumstances –" an emotive shrug finished the sentence.

"Say what you will. We both know how it will end." For once Dumbledore felt tired; the ritual-enhanced anger failing against entropy. It would return, it always did, but not for the moment.

"Splendid! Please, right this way, I had tea prepared for such an occasion. Entirely untainted by potions or spells I assure you."

The two formed a strange pair, walking up the path. It lead to what had once been a charming chateau, over a small stream. Willow trees, drooping over the water brushed the ground with their branch tips, sending ripples across its surface. Lush groundcover cushioned their footsteps, turning the harsh clicks of Grindelwald's boots into barely-detectable whispers against the leaves. Dumbledore's own boots did not make a sound in either case, rich dragon-leather inset through engravings both utilitarian and attractive – he'd made them himself.

A table, white-painted iron sat under the largest willow, a covered tea service balanced atop the perfect, flat surface. Grindlewald gestured at the near chair, a simple affair of wrought iron and cushions, before flicking away the covering with a snap of his fingers.

"Earl Grey is your preference, I believe?" Liquid poured from the silver teapot's spout into a teacup, so thin the rising level could be seen through its sides. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Two lumps, no milk," Dumbledore waited until the obligatory ceremony completed, and stirred the granules into the hot beverage. "You wished to talk."

Grindlewald inhaled the fragrance wafting from the cup held in both hands. "You have been patient. Could we not let cares rest a short while longer? This war has rendered peaceful moments infrequent."

" _This war_ is your fault," Dumbledore contradicted. "Not solely, of course, but you are the one man whom has kept the fight going for so long."

"Is that what they say?" the other man seemed amused. "Great evil Grindelwald, whispering behind thrones and poisoning the opposition? They are too kind."

A moment of silence passed between them, the rumble of distant shelling a subtle hint to their purpose. Dumbledore let the china settle back on the table. "You deny it then?"

"Naturally," Grindlewald folded his hands before his own cup. "The young muggle fool became Minister of Germany. You know the law, decreed by the ICW no less. The highest recognized authority of muggle governments must be made aware of the magical presence. Since I was the temporary Mugwump of the Prussian Federation – Magical side you understand – it was my duty to speak with the man." A shudder of distaste ran through the aristocratic brow. "As soon as I made my appearance, he made all sorts of accusations. First I was a communist, then a Western spy. He must have worked through a dozen iterations until I'm afraid I lost my temper and – demonstrated, a few things."

Dumbledore remained silent, eyes studying every angle through peripheral vision while Grindelwald talked. He could understand more information than nearly any other man alive, and had yet to perform his next Ritual, which would combine all the previous iterations into a new whole.

"After _that_ he became extremely polite. Inquired about the state of magical society in other nations, continents, the flora and fauna of his own backyard. Remarkable mind, a bit on the other side of genius if I do say so myself," Grindelwald waved a hand, causing the creamer to pour out a new serving for his freshened cup. "Might I trouble you for the crumpets? Black market I'm afraid, what with the war. But as I was saying, young Hitler became downright _obsessed_ with what he called the 'occult'. The ICW was most put-out with me, but it was their own regulations that required he know what he did. Hiring squibs as bodyguards was a brilliant stroke; they cannot be compelled to forget like a muggle, the law doesn't apply in such a case. At first I remained a simple scholar, studying my magic and being left relatively alone – a touch boring if you understand. And he was frightfully intelligent. Before I knew it, we had plans."

"Plans." Dumbledore murmured. "Old plans perhaps? For their own good?"

"For the _greater_ good, Albus," he returned. "Hitler decided that if such a miracle as magic could exist, he could manufacture one. Astounding, those muggles – they turned around a faltering economy, in the depths of arrears, and became a powerful entity, all within the space of a few years. When he showed me what he'd done, how could I refuse his offer?"

"Offer?" Dumbledore jerked to attention. "What offer?"

Grindelwald smiled, a genuine expression. "After our, disagreement, I had to flee. Durmstrang wouldn't have allowed me back, Hogwarts would of a certain ensured my incarceration, and Beauxbatons didn't have anything I needed. Very polite and charming people, but useless in a fight. Less than five percent actually shot to kill when Hitler invaded – an entire society given over to shell-shock. Can you imagine?"

"The _offer_ , Gellert."

"Ah yes, the mind wanders in intelligent conversation." Grindelwald's eyes gathered a faraway look. "He offered me research, Albus. _Research!_ Everything the muggles had recorded on magicals, manpower, tools to further my studies beyond what I'd dreamed! All I had to do was but ask, and a new installation was created. I have hundreds of muggle assistants, and when the word came out on my efforts, the wizarding populace sprang to my aid as well. I have grimoires from families going back to the Roman era at my fingertips, the power to go wherever I want with as much firepower as an army can carry, and all I had to do was offer a few suggestions on manufacturing. And perhaps, a history lesson or two."

"It was you then, all along." Dumbledore felt the rage beginning to build once more. He clung to it like an old friend.

"Hardly. Hitler declared war, decided to make that boorish concentration camp. As if I needed help in necromancy? No he was beginning his own studies; blood magic is available to even the weakest wizard, and some muggles if they know what they are doing. With magicals attacking a muggle army, I had to send appropriate responses. Can't break the Statute you know; some of the Polish and Russian wizards knew far better than to do that. I taught them myself."

The anger rose higher. "You _taught_ the Russians?"

Grindelwald smiled again. This time, Dumbledore could see the hint of madness lurking in its depths, the madness so insane it became rational thought.

"Indeed; after leaving Europe I had a few friends that sent me to China. Delightful folk, very open to the idea of universalism. Then I headed north to Russia when it looked like the locals were about to start feuding again – and my hosts were becoming quite insistent that I join their 'glorious revolution.' The Russians were much more peaceful – until that Red and White Bolshevik nonsense started up."

"And what did you do to instigate _that_ I wonder?" Knuckles clenched white on his wand.

"Nothing at all." Grindelwald didn't appear to notice the effect he was having. "I simply pointed out the flaws of the current Tsar – it was his own people that began a muggle uprising to cover casualties. Nothing like a bit of civil war to disguise a magical conflagration, don't you think?"

Dumbledore trembled in rage. He'd read the reports, seen the statistics. Over eight million muggles alone had died, and thousands of magical families, wiping out family lines, leaving behind empty manors and decaying secrets. Even the Orient hadn't escaped – by his count the bodies stacked over thirty million deep, and they were just getting started. He heard something unusual, when had Grindelwald resumed speaking?

" …and then I found a reference in some local rumors. A wizard that lived in a tower of silver, undefeatable by any mortal. They were right – _I found it Albus! The first!_ " The man sat back, sheer joy gleaming from every feature.

"Found … what?" Dumbledore replayed the conversation in his mind. His eyes widened. " 'Undefeatable', you said. That … that cannot be true."

"Ah, but it is, it is!" Grindelwald actually preened like a peacock, a trait Dumbledore had once thought an endearing characteristic. "I managed to win its loyalty from the old bastard. He had some silly idea of letting the thing die with him. Fool. Power is meant to be used, like we thought Albus!"

"The Death Stick …." Dumbledore felt horror wash over him. "That explains everything. Your defeating every Hit Wizard sent after you, destroying companies of wizards singlehanded. _Everything!_ "

A delighted laugh escaped Grindelwald's lips before he stopped it, a polite hand covering the embarrassment. "My dear Albus, the Elder Wand is nothing but a tool. A method of enhancing what is already present. It doesn't make decisions for us, or even greatly enhance mental acuity. But it _does_ serve as a catalyst for true Power. It works on an entirely different plane of existence from mere wands, and yet it seems more normal than any focus I have ever used. Which brings me to my final point."

The wizard leaned forwards, hands folded under his chin. "We dreamed of this, Albus. We shared a same desire for greatness, for doing good with the power we have. _For the better good_ , those were your own words, were they not? You and I are the most powerful beings in Europe. Between us, there would be no one that could stop us. We could unite Them, Albus. Them! The Cloak, the Wand, the Stone, and we could do anything to improve the whole world, should we so choose. Or why stop with the world? We could destroy the Netherworlds, the Hinter-realms. Anything we desired to do, we could do. Think of the possibilities!"

Dumbledore froze, mid-thought. Controlling Death. He could – no. She was long gone. Everyone had died so long ago; he was only a century and some old, he would live another century without trouble, barring accidents. But the others were gone – Old Headmaster Dippet, whom had made frequent comments on the Hundred Years War, the former Headmaster before him, who knew mages that had sailed with Sir Walter Raleigh.

Any of them. _All of them._ Able to be brought back.

 _She_ could be brought back. And he could be forgiven, at long last.

Then his gaze turned to the town walls. Valenciennes boasted a population of hundreds of thousands. Beyond it, nations were struggling, titanic brutes slamming broadsides into each other. Yes, he could quell rebellion, instill a new order. But the cost was too high. Loathe as he was to admit it, this was _for the greater good._

Grindelwald sighed. It sounded long and deep, like it came from his very toes. "Alas. I had to try, Albus. I owed you that much."

Dumbledore took a final sip from his cup. "For what it is worth, thank you. But you know what must be done. I shall not falter, not again."

The other wizard's wand hand came up in a lazy salute. "I have always wondered who would have won. You were handicapped, what with the baggage and an overly moralistic spare spine."

"That _baggage_ was my _sister!_ " Dumbledore lowered his brow; the taunts would begin. "And that 'extra spine' as you phrase it, my infinitely better half."

"Your 'better half' seems to be lacking a presence today," Grindelwald rose to his feet. An ancient Power wafted from his form, a wand extending from his hand like an extension of his arm. "Call your Phoenix. The city is evacuated. Let us truly see whom is more powerful: the man who followed his dreams, or the teacher who stayed at home and cowered."

Dumbledore's own wand appeared, and Fawkes's screaming cry echoed overhead, its aura flaring like a lightning bolt. "Let's."


	4. Battle

The wizard in a dark uniform leaned back, disappointment etched on every feature. "One. Go."

Dumbledore felt a faint sting at the side of his neck, like a wasp had just landed, then torn away. He raised an eyebrow.

Grindelwald shrugged one shoulder, a lazy motion. "Simple first. Modified arrow charms?"

Dumbledore arose, wand dropping into his hand from the depths of his sleeve. His opponent remained seated, embodying an extreme lack of concern. "Strike at me, if you wish. It will not do you any good."

Wand raised, Dumbledore sent his power surging into a new wordless incantation – then stopped. Grindelwald's reaction hadn't shifted an iota, even the smile had remained frozen in place. A deliberate action, he realized. And one that made for problems, _many_ problems. "Homunuculus?"

The smile stretched into a wide parody of joy. "Ah. So close, but well done, I wondered how soon you would catch on. This is an advanced form of _golem_ actually, an old Semitic recipe. That fool of a leader chose to exterminate far too many of magical blood – he makes the Pure-bloods in your home country look positively enlightened. Who knows how many secrets lie locked behind blood purity boundaries?" The pensive look shifted into one of anticipation. "No matter. I assure you I am enjoying this experience immensely. Two. Go."

The artificial man's hands clapped twice. At the sound, half a dozen people, dressed in long robes exited the chateau behind which Dumbledore stood. "Allow me to introduce the Order of Chrysanthemum, an exchange program if you will, something I hear is popular in the colonies. I sent a half-dozen of my best lieutenants to my colleagues in the Orient, and they have sent their elite; a special order with a muggle equivalent, I believe."

The six spread across the grounds at a sedate pace. Their faces – what Dumbledore could see of them – were serene, placid. If it weren't for the emblem proudly displayed on their robes, or the unique weapons they were wielding, he would have suspected individuals under the influence of a calming draught potion. Yet the whisper of magic he could detect failed to register any potion at all, other than an apparent need for the gentleman on the far right to counter a stomach problem. The ingredients were enough to make an eyebrow threaten to lift but not quite. Being an alchemist had its drawbacks, at times.

"This shall be interesting …." Grindelwald's simulacrum folded its hands beneath its chin, studying the scene intently.

Dumbledore extended a hand, closing it into a fist, sinew bulging along the length of his arm. A pulse of raw Magic rippled across the tea set. Living beings would feel disoriented, inanimate objects would feel nothing. Something in-between however, neither sentient nor senseless, suffered greatly.

The simulacrum shattered without warning, shards of clay firing across the open garden. Dumbledore had just enough time to see the golem's eyes widen before the haze of runic signatures flared into fading color.

Anger resumed its place. "I have no time for this."

The lead mage bowed, his motions echoed by his entourage. Expressionless, his hand laid upon the hilt of a blade resting at his side. "Sensei Doomble-dohr. I am vehy sahy, but you may not pass."

A vein pulsed above Dumbledore's right eyebrow.

As one, the six foreigners extended an arm, long wooden staves coming to a rest from some hidden pocket. He could see the trademark Seals, Oriental style magic, on segments of clothing – while Western magics focused on manipulating energy as it flowed, the Oriental fashion dictated preparation and sudden release. The society as a whole still kept their swordsmanship as well; disarming an opponent took a literal meaning with these folk.

"I have," Dumbledore's arm rose, a beckoning gesture. " _No time."_

Fawkes hurtled from the sky, landing on Dumbledore's arm. The firebird glared, flames sprouting from his wingtips, but made no move to attack.

Dumbledore gave his familiar a confused look. "Fawkes?"

Screeching, starting in normal hearing but ascending to heights that made dogs howl in pain, echoed from the sky. Dumbledore risked a glance skywards, where a second dot circled. Unlike Fawkes this bird had dark coloration, power billowing somewhere around its head. Clouds that had been nowhere in sight before were growing around its form, looming in darkening colors like the mountains he'd seen in the far West.

The screech repeated itself, growing in power, related to the clouds he realized. The Japanese mages appeared to reach the same understanding; one took out a seal, breaking it on the ground. A shield equal to Dumbledore's own appeared, silver-hued but a matte color.

Fawkes hummed, and for a brief moment Dumbledore had the strangest feeling that the Phoenix had a _satisfied_ look in his eye. Then he blinked orange-hued flame.

They'd been Flame-Transported a fair distance off; he could see the town's edges, but from a great height. His feet touched solid support, but it was the support of an ancient bell tower, one high enough to provide a vantage point across all of Valenciennes. Squinting brought the stubborn shield into sight, further than anticipated, but more to the point, much further than he'd expected in the first place. A simple Earth-Rendering analogue would have defeated the shield, followed by a Flame Whip for starters, and perhaps a short skirmish. Not to denigrate the skills of his opponents, but none could match his power.

"Fawkes?"

The familiar eyes did not blink, focused on the non-reflective silver shield.

A third screech, this time loud enough to make the stone tremble, scorched the sky. Lightning bolts, each thicker than Dumbledore's leg arced from the flying bird, hammering against the shield. First a single bolt struck, the characteristic ringing gong nearly drowned out by the thunder.

Then several bolts landed in quick succession, thunder rapid-fire detonations almost as disorienting as the bright flashes.

Dumbledore held a hand before his eyes, dropping a quick protective charm in place. When his hand lowered, he could see lightning fall again and again, pounding the silvery surface with furious impact. He could also see figures moving inside, vaguely setting up more shields, protective forces native to their land – powerful, but inflexible.

"Gorgeous, ain't it?"

Whirling, Dumbledore almost brained a man he hadn't realized stood behind. At the last second his modified hex twisted to one side, spiraling off into the sky.

"Much obliged," the grizzled mage tugged a forelock at Dumbledore. "Warlock Adams, at your service. That's Libby up there. 'Ope you wouldn't mind if we took a crack at those squinty-eyed bastards. Save your strength for the Big One."

Ritual-enhanced brainpower sparked in Dumbledore's mind. "American, _the_ Warlock Adams? Of the Revolutionary fame?"

A faint smile shimmered across the old wizard's face. "My squib brothers took care of politics. I handled the magic side 'o things. Fought a Dumbledore at White Plains, fella nearly fried my 'ead he did. That you?"

"I – spent a year in the Colonies," Dumbledore admitted after a moment's thought. "I left after White Plains, my father had died shortly before and – never mind."

Adams almost smiled once more. "Well, always good to see an old foe become a new friend. Been running the military side 'o things after Old Man Steubens popped his clogs. Was about to retire when this dust-up started. Figure," he paused, watching a particularly bright bolt penetrate the shield before the defensive measure resumed. "Ah, what a sight. What was I saying? Oh yah. Figured I'll be leaving things to the younger generation. Once you hit your second century, things start to move faster than you do, aye?"

"I expect so," Dumbledore's mind kept firing, calculating alternative actions, focusing on Grindelwald once more. "Is that a thunder bird?"

"Aye indeed," Adam's pride was obvious. He smiled a grin bright enough to reflect the lightning bolts now hurtling downwards in a constant stream. "Libby. National symbol she is; what, you think they'd use a fish eagle for a national bird? Carrion eater. No, thunder bird is the thing. Bald Eagle is just a cover-up. Damn Franklin was always too smart."

An old sense returned to Dumbledore, one he hadn't used in over a century. Fawkes picked up the change immediately, turning to look in the same direction.

Not noticing, Adams kept up his commentary. "Yeah, Libby and I have a bone to pick with these lads. Had friends in Pearl y'see –"

"Thank you." Dumbledore fixed his eyes on a particular tower in the distance, one that throbbed with an old power. The power itself felt – expectant. Magic behaved like water, like stone; it held purpose and desired to complete that which it was designed to perform. Magic in the hands of Grindelwald always held a unique flavor, a sort of smoking umber smell, if proper names were necessary, or a strong fire raging beneath the seeming-dead nature of burned out trees. That was what he needed to prevent: a resurgence of the forest fire before it could rekindle. Another conflagration on a scale like this 'World War' …?

"Fawkes."

The firebird lifted off, hovered for an instant, encasing the both of them in flame. The flame died away, leaving Dumbledore to see the top of a hill, a tower set upon its pinnacle. Yet the dark-garbed figure was not on its peak as Dumbledore half-expected – instead he was near the tower's base, laying down defensive wards.

"Gellart," his wand sketched a preliminary offensive pattern. "Give up now."

The Dark wizard flicked his own wand outwards, still uttering the final phrases of his previous spell. A wave of magenta light flowed outwards, building into a short wall that rose every second.

Dumbledore lowered his stance, opening his mind. Arithmantic equations flowed, evaluating probabilities, estimating his surroundings. The ground was old, older than the town itself; therefore it had to come from elsewhere. The fossils resonating to his senses within the earth weren't native to France, or even Europe – they felt lost, torn from their home, further proof of the same. The tower itself needed closer examination.

He felt himself moving, the partition allocated to closing distance with the barrier guiding his body in that task. Another partitioned segment, focused on assessing varying threat levels, maneuvered defensive spells from Occlumancy-enhanced memory. Never the same spell twice, always tailored to the attacks weakest point. Tertiary dividers further delegated situations as they arose, giving him more and more time to react.

The tower looked foreign-built. Construction methods appeared of French origin, but it was French in the same way that a Krup looked like a dog. There were miniscule variations throughout the lines, like the builders followed directions in exacting detail, but did not precisely retain the proper _feel_. The last time he'd encountered such discernment was at a museum, arguing the provenance of claimed Atlantean artifacts. He'd been right, and the con artist had been forced to reveal his secrets, but to perform such a facilitation on a scale this grand? Only a wizard on par of himself or Grindelwald could have done it.

 _Had_ done it.

This tower was no French relic, it was a failsafe.

Logic concluded, Dumbledore re-focused. The glowing wall had reached head-height, rising higher. An old cantrip, developed in the Druid fight against the Romans in what would become Frankish territory sprang to mind. He cast it, feeling the power flow.

An instant later he rose into the air, leaping over the wall like a gazelle. His off-hand swept a dispelling aura, knocking aside wardings like cobwebs. Several snapped, writhing deadly forces in unpredictable circuits – but from patterns Dumbledore had memorized what felt like a lifetime ago. The dormant memory division flared to life in his mind, recalling the wards creation, countering them all with a single complicated pulse. Entertaining, almost. Any other wizard would have needed to split his focus between surviving the wards, or surviving the fall.

He landed.

Grindelwald's mask cracked. Civility had been his shield, Dumbledore knew that, but it only controlled the beast within. "You ruin everything, Albus! Everything!"

The Ritual-enhanced mental partitions joined forces, devoting greater brain-power to the task at hand. New subdivisions formed, watching the walls, the ground, examining each rune and scratch for hidden traps. A secondary division, newly created, activated his half-glasses, enchantments allowing perception through obscuring magics. Multiple traps, more subtle than the Egyptian famed curses but less powerful for that fact, revealed themselves. Instantly the mind directed more resources to identification.

"You ruined yourself!" Dumbledore's wand spat the _dracincendi_ curse at his former friend. Its heat, second only to _fyndefyre_ and dragon's breath, warped the stones shape. As soon as the curse's fury passed, the stonework reformed. New curses sprang to mind, and he used them all; Nordic, Greek, Abyssnian, altering their cadence with every breath. "You had a chance. No more."

Black magic radiated from Grindelwald's hands, penetrating the ground within the light-purple walls. Skeletal hands reached from widening cracks, pulling hard bodies free. While perfectly silent, the sound of calcified remains clicking on stone filled the air with a ghastly chorus, a hollow sound, the flesh of the damned rending itself into service one more time.

"Do you know how many magic-related casualties have occurred in this blasted war?" Grindelwald shouted over the din. The rage seemed to have passed, bordering on civility once more – another quirk Dumbledore recalled to his regret. "Those muggles have mastered killing, they've practically turned it into a science!" Another burst of ghost-transparent magic hissed along the ground, spurring on the bony figures. "I daresay less than thirty percent were from magical cause. I've spent years burying them here. _Years_ Albus. Those poor souls down in the camps, trenches filled with the bodies from the last Great War, the potential is nigh endless!"

Dumbledore cast an encircling charm, withering sunlight vaporizing the remains. Transfiguring the dust into more objects was child's play for his expertise, and a touch of Alchemy lent them additional stopping power.

Grindelwald met the charge of a dozen pseudo-horses with concentrated blasts from the Elder Wand. Ordinary Transfigurations would have smashed against the power, but Alchemy triggered a secondary reaction: the horses crumbling forms released a green-tinted gas, the wind blowing it towards the Dark wizard.

The gas failed to phase the Dark wizard, who dispelled it with a negligent gesture. That gesture turned into another attack, blending the action of one incantation into another, itself woven into three separate chants that could be understood multiple ways, if one listened to the wrong point. That had been his forte, Dumbledore remembered. Always a deceptively simple way of performing the complex; the reduced difficulty was matched by decreased power, but Grindelwald had never lacked power.

Neither did he.

" _Enough!_ " A chaining sequence launched, Transfigurations combining Alchemy and charms in the off hand, Dark and Light curses emanating from the wand. Grindelwald batted them aside, levitating the odd skeleton into his path, quick enough to continue his own offensive despite the oncoming attack. Dumbledore increased the tempo, adding flame whips to encircle their battleground, a field growing increasingly small as the magenta walls drew closer.

" _Albie?"_ A soft voice pierced the din of sickly groans and harsh lights. _"Albie, play with me Albie."_

Despite himself, Dumbledore turned – and beheld true terror.

A girl, less than four feet tall, holding a large stuffed dragon smiled at him hopefully. Light radiated from her features, infusing his heart with a joy he'd not felt in years. _"Play with me Albie! Make the bubbles, you know? Bubbles!"_

"Ariana …." Dumbledore stumbled. Pausing for one heart-breaking moment.

The cherubic face morphed into hatred. _"I hate you! Go away! I hate you!"_

Pain erupted from his chest, driving Dumbledore to his knees. The short girl drew back, loathing in her eyes. _"You're never here! Mommy's tired, and Abby says you're off with that man again. Why do you hate us? I hate you!"_

Lightning coursed through Dumbledore's veins. He couldn't breathe; all his attention focused itself on one last attempt. To make her see, to ask – no. _Beg_ forgiveness. "I – I'm sorry. I didn't mean…."

" _It doesn't matter!"_ the girl's face shone a different light, no longer hopeful. Faint, wet tracks traced the outer edge of her eyes down past her cheeks. Hair, caught in the wetness, grew dark, sticking to her face. _"You only think about yourself. You don't love me. You don't love mommy. You hate us. I hate you!"_

Something – was off. Dumbledore looked down. Metal, a dark gray material stuck out of his chest, a little left of the sternum. _Hrefner_ , his mind helpfully identified. A dwarven-forged metal, equal to goblin-steel, but far more receptive to runes. But the pain emanating from its tip was nothing compared to the pain caused by the sorrow in his mind.

Slow thoughts trickled through, concrete thickness but colder than ice. Where was his logic? Arianna hadn't spoken like that. Her condition prevented all but Aberforth from eliciting more than monosyllabic sentences. It had been a trick. A deception Gellart would pay for if ….

He looked down again. The blade tip was melting. Heavily cursed materials faded after their intended purpose had been accomplished. Dumbledore's eyes tore themselves away, looking for the wizard responsible.

Grindelwald stood in the doorway of the tower, touching a rune-set with his wand, a vicious snarl on his face. "You took _everything_ from me. Not again. _Never_ again _._ I'll start again, but not from bare bone beginnings, oh no. I have an empire I can call upon now. Enjoy your time with _family._ It's what you betrayed me for, isn't it? _"_

Rage flickered in Dumbledore's heart, weakly beating against the walls of his mind. But he felt so tired – so exhausted. A glance at Arianna's shade, her face still offered comfort even when so twisted, but she was gone once more.

That broke him.

 _He'd been through Hel, searching for magics to aid his fight. Dumbledore had waded through demonic morasses, filled with the fire of vengeance. Magical creatures ranging from dragons to harpies, Dark Wizards and their minions couldn't bring him down. A full decade had been spent eradicating necromancy in a valley five square miles wide, a place teeming with flowers that spoke honeyed lies – they'd merely made him laugh at each attempt. The strange arcane knowledge from shaman expanded his mind, taught by kindly men in places no sane wizard would dare to walk._

But this ….

Another burst of pain ripped into his heart. Dimly, he realized his right shoulder now lay in mud, skeletal hands wrapping around armored robes, sharpened tips digging deep.

 _Norway had been hard; sub-zero temperatures mixed with forge heat, where Queen Hel had reigned. While Dark, she'd been pleasant enough, teaching all that came what they desired to know of her realm. It was from there Durmstrang had obtained their charter, long ages past._

Dumbledore felt that same chill beginning to regain its hold. His fingertips couldn't sense the ground any more, a biting cold that spread up his arm.

" _Albie,"_ cool mist brushed across his forehead. Arianna's face peered back at him. But this time she was translucent, every tear gone, but a pale imitation of what she'd once been. _"It's okay, Albie. I'm waiting for you. Mommy's waiting. Daddy's waiting. Come home Albie … don't you love us?"_

"Gellart – damn – you … _._ " Dumbledore ground out. A fel light, magic at its most basic, the most _primal_ realm of existence, flared. Some termed it Accidental Magic, that mysterious subject understanding desire and interpreting it as best it could. Broken glass sliced at his throat, futile attempts to make his body hurt more than his heart.

It didn't.

 _To be continued …._


	5. End of an Era

" _A life near its end perceives the world in a different way."_ Dumbledore considered. At the moment, all he could fully concentrate upon was his inability to concentrate. _"All those rituals, everything I studied. In the end, it's all worth nothing. Perhaps everything is equal in one final respect? Mountains and kings … all eventually pass on."_

Then another thought flashed through his mind, a burst of light in a dimming room. _"I am maudlin. Who would have thought? Failure. Aberforth, Arianna. Forgive me. I gave it everything I had left."_

A weight settled on his chest, sinking his consciousness deeper. _"I just wish – hoped – that I could have finished Gellart. He will die, eventually. But it will destroy the world as I know it, that I'm … sure …."_

Sound, pure unadulterated existence penetrated. Light bloomed once more, bright sunshine piercing the fog.

It felt familiar. Encouragement, not banal words of well-meaning friends, but the tone of surety, knowledge that a better future lay ahead. There was only one being capable of such a thing.

"Fawkes?" He raised his head, filing the action in his memory.

The Phoenix lifted its head from where it rested on Dumbledore's chest. One last tear fell, landing on the wound, soaking into flesh like water on drought-starved ground. Its intent stare pierced Dumbledore, filling him with resolve once more.

A deep growl emanated from Dumbledore's throat. Strength returned to his limbs, surging into motion when the thought sparked. The clawed hand grasping his shoulder fell apart in a spray of dust.

Lunging to his feet, Dumbledore took a heartbeat to examine his surroundings. The purple shield grew larger still, nearing a point where it had begun curving inwards, encasing the tower within a bubble. The tower itself trembled, incredible power forcing the tons of stone to shake. His practiced eye caught a faint flicker within the stone itself, as if it were removing itself from sight – signs of a teleportation spell at work. One part of his mind did a brief search, informing him that it likely was based from a Chinese Seal, one of thousands created to make surreptitious additions to the Great Wall. The main body had been built by Muggles, but wizards had never been one to leave advantages to others.

The song of the Phoenix turned fierce – it followed his train of thought better than a Master Legilmens. Then it abruptly ended in a surprised squawk.

Dumbledore's head snapped back. "Fawkes?"

A shockwave surprised him, faster than his enhanced senses could catch beforehand. Instant memory replayed across his mind, seeing a grizzled figure landing to one side, energy sparking off its flanks like the spray from a large ship. But the impact threw out enough energy to toss Dumbledore off his feet, tumbling him like a toy into the dirt once more.

"Keep your eyes open lad!" A hoarse voice shouted. It was punctuated by a brief light, followed by a peal of thunder.

Dumbledore was on his feet in an instant, wand at the ready. "Adams?"

The old man spared a glance in his direction. "Ya. Didn't yeh see the Undead coming?"

Dumbledore squinted through his glasses, then cursed. That enchantment had been remotely deactivated, a flaw inherent within its design. At the touch of one finger it flared back to life, revealing an unwelcome sight.

Outside the purple field, the cracks were disgorging more skeletons, climbing into view. Pieces of their remains lay around Adam's impact crater, evidence of yet more lying near jagged burn patterns. But Dumbledore's attention still hung on the hordes of Undead outside the barrier. The wall stood a good two dozen feet beyond the tower, but the bodies rising were not stopping. Already there were enough articulated forms to form a full company – rapidly approaching battalion status. Given what Gellart had told him, there could very well be an entire army group coming – up to a million souls, if the term could still be used.

"Get to it boy," Adams made a strange gesture, sliding away his wand. A battle staff, etched by time and busy rune masters fell out of thin air into his hand, its tip stabbing into a cobblestone like butter. "I'll hold 'em off while you tear Big Bad a new 'un."

Dumbledore didn't hesitate. If the creations were Gellart's, there could be no doubt the barrier would prove no obstacle to other portions of his creation.

The door was lined in runes, some visible, others covered in thin layers of stone. An old Egyptian trick if he recalled aright. Still more runes incorporated entire rune patterns to create more runes, akin to writing letters with the body of books. Inefficient use of space, but exponential power amplification –a Nordic trick. Hurried examination revealed enough traps, decoy trails and sabotage enchantments to occupy seven Ward-Breaker teams for a week.

"Boy?" a crack of thunder shuddered the ground. "They're startin' ta move."

Dumbledore calmed his mind lifting Occlumancy to the highest portion of thought. His consciousness compiled into a single whole unit, shedding trained reflexes honed over the course of the last century. It divided, then divided again, and again, and again. Time slowed as his perception increased, slowing further as the division process continued, devoting mental resources on each problem. Perhaps it would take seven teams to do so, but each team held less than fifty years combined experience. Dumbledore's own studies had encompassed far more than basic ward-breaking. It honed the decryption of puzzles to an art form.

"Reminds me o' those voodoo folk in New Orleans. What was it, eighteen-fourteen?" A blast of green flame incinerated another squad. "Fire and 'lectricty, that's how it's done."

One sequence resolved itself after three tense seconds. Then a second. Mental partitions combined as their equations became known, reducing the strain, adding their own resources to other partitions. Within the space of thirty seconds, Dumbledore knew the answer.

"Class three unstable ward, five seconds after I break the lock!" he called to the elderly wizard.

Another detonation answered. "Do it quick, I'll bug out when yeh say four. Capiche?"

Putting aside a longing for proper English terminology, Dumbledore tapped the proper code, breaking rune limitations. "One – two – three –"

Fawkes dove behind Dumbledore, screaming in rage. A strange smell of charred feathers, mixed with that of incinerated bone met Dumbledore's nostrils, while an unbearably hot wind buffeted his combat robes against the back of his hind-most leg. A fraction of a partition diverted enough power to check – and froze on the wards. Despite all his care, a fail-safe had been activated. A faint glimmer caught his eye as the runes involved evaporated, a _swohilo_ and _gel_ , intersecting within an overarching containment directive, a line-of-sight kill directive; potent but short-lived.

He spun. The shield was gone – so were many of the skeletons, small piles of ash lying where they'd once stood, although any out of direct view still existed, at least in part. The very nature of a skeleton meant entire swathes were gone, but there had been nigh an army already, and the terrain varied which meant the bulk of skeletal forces had been winnowed, not destroyed.

"Not a shield," Dumbledore glanced at the perfect circle of exceptionally charred earth, where the magenta field had once stood. "Containment. Directive. Clever but sim – Fawkes?"

A faint cheep came from the ground. Horrified, Dumbledore looked down, seeing a bedraggled chick, somewhat more homely than a plucked Turkish guinea hen, yet possessing the same eyes betiding death to any that mocked.

"Adams …." Dumbledore looked up. A thick layer of ashes lay on the ground, a dark bird with silver-hued head resting beside them. Golden eyes met his, boring into his consciousness.

" _Vengeance."_ The word resonated in his skull, vibrating like a gong. _"Vengeance."_

The thunderbird rose in fury, sparks leaping from its wingtips and striking the ground. But it gained only a handful of lengths upward before turning its full attention on the undead army shambling closer to the tower. Its head reared back, wings extending to their full width, pinions spreading far wider than their humble appearance would have suggested.

Instinct prompted Dumbledore to cast an auricular dampening charm on himself, and on the miniature Fawkes below.

Thunderous rage, finding a twin in his own soul, billowed from the heartbroken familiar in a tidal wave of sound. Skeletons, mere calcified remains, shattered under its force. Trees leaned back, smaller representatives cracking under the strain, toppling over in splintering rumbles inaudible under the force of the thunderbirds pain. The nearest buildings collapsed, thin-walled barriers shattering into a thousand pieces.

Dumbledore felt the wall under hand fade from existence for a moment, then fade back into reality, the transportation charms taking hold. The familiar's anger reminded him of his own – and he let it be known.

An old siege curse, used by the Greeks against their foes, detonated against Grindelwald's door. Aged wood, heartened by runes and strange materials barely shuddered.

He started again, scooping up Fawkes and depositing him in a protected pocket. Both hands blasted at the door, changing curses. Bombardments invented by the Persians, siege-hammer spells from the Carthaginians, everything he could recall struck at the door befouling his path. Slowly, the wood chipped away. Perhaps Grindelwald had been inspired by Hogwarts, the way his wards were layered; a lesser wizard could have never dreamed of breaking through. But Dumbledore knew the very nature of a siege defense wards – he'd _lived_ in them for decades, first as a student, then as a teacher. Tinkering with wards had been a hobby, then an occupation. Not to the point of his Transfiguration or Alchemy penchant; but then, there were only three living organisms that matching his skills. One of them lived on an island, breaking coconuts with his head.

The tower faded and reappeared once more, a faster transition this time. The last charm would be activating soon.

One blast offset the fire-suppression, then battered with an Arctic chill. Negating values flickered through his mind, calculating optimal directions, highlighting weak points as the defenses weakened.

Swirling ovals of bright colors collapsed around the charred circle, deepening their hold as reality shifted. Like their magenta predecessor, their cycling orbit rose skywards, drawing towards the tower's peak in a bubble of multi-colored power. Its energy made Dumbledore's hair stand up, mild crackles of static charge dissipating through his robes.

Finally, he unleashed the roaring fire of a particularly potent battering ram analogue. This one he'd _borrowed_ from the Otto-Turk Empire, an illegal spell allegedly kept under wraps until its immolation would be carried out. The fact that he'd discovered the spell within a repository of similar works meant either the Turkish government hadn't eradicated the spell's existence – a tiring endeavor involving Soul Memory magics – or his own mental defences were more formidable than entire empires of wizards.

He fancied the latter more accurate.

The door burst inwards, and he sprang through, charging into the tower before it vanished entirely.

Inside was much, _much_ larger than the outside; exponential factors of magnitude larger. A Size-Expansion charm had been applied, or rather, what must have been a Size-Expansion _Ritual_. Staircases thirty feet long rose from the center, pausing at evenly spaced landings before launching themselves upwards once more, only to meet at another landing. In the brief glance Dumbledore stole, he could determine fifteen landings – which meant nearly five hundred feet lay between the floor and the ceiling.

He revised his estimate when the entryway flooring abruptly gave way to a near fall, where the edge toppled away from the doorway into depths beyond eyesight. It was an expert opinion as well, he had to admit. Clinging to the floor with one hand whilst the rest dangled gave some unimpeachable authority on the matter. It held – of one dared to think, he chuckled – _gravitas._

"Albus?" A surprised voice asked.

He looked up, and saw Grindelwald staring down in shock. But like the professional he was, the shock did not last more than a heartbeat. The Elder Wand cleared its holster, almost apparating to Grindelwald's hand, aimed and spitting death at Dumbledore within the second heartbeat.

Rage scorched back into life, stronger than ever. Dumbledore performed a one-handed pullup, launching himself back over the ledge, returning fire for fire, blood for blood.

This time, he did not hold back. Size-altering magic or no, _this_ time, Gellart would not escape.

 _Fiendfyre_ leapt from his wand, instantly feeding upon the nearest surface. It needed magic to survive, or copious amounts of flammable substances – both of which were present in abundance. The bright orange magic flared as it hit the wall, latching to its enchanted surface. The fire's form grew from a small Phoenix into a massive avian, soon joined by a dragon. That was the benefit and bane of the enchantment; once the magic detected the signature of the nearest wizard-made construct, it adapted the darkness inherent in the original caster into its own form. Soul Magic, one could argue, at its most depraved.

"How _Dark_ of you, Albus!" Gellart's wand spun at inhuman speeds, redirecting the _Fiendfyre_ into a lower portion of the tower. It followed the elder magic willingly.

Dumbledore's eyes widened as the fire, hot enough to melt goblin-steel like an ethereal bite of _brigtsmör_ , faded in a heartbeat, vanishing into smoke. Its smoke grew, darkening into shadows deeper than the forests surrounding Hogwarts. He created a shield out of instinct, just in time to deflect a plethora of sharp – somethings _._ They drifted slowly, giving him just enough time to understand their flavor. It burned on the back of his tongue, acrid aftertaste of cloying strength.

He apparated beyond Grindelwald, delivering a counterattack as he landed. That was an advantage he held: situational awareness. Very few – even amongst the elite – possessed the same comprehensive attention to detail as he.

As Grindelwald retaliated, Dumbledore let his mind expand once more. The walls were gaining a transparent look, channeling enough power through their depth to turn the entire structure into a single, massive portkey. He could glimpse multiple structures, oriental towers overlaying Italian buildings. Once every three point seven seconds, a Teutonic-style castle appeared, crenulations shrouded in darkness.

He moved faster.

"You could have held the world in your hands, Albus." Walls leaned overhead, spikes extending town towards the English wizard. "This is my home. My sanctum. It is a reflection of my mind. _Traitor._ "

Rather than deal with transfiguring or using alchemy on an obvious target, Dumbledore Apparated again. This time he sent a random blasting curse into the wall, dislodging stone. A second later, he repeated the action.

Precise jets of some curse he could not recognize hissed past his ear. Dumbledore spotted a new point, Apparated, and fired a Nordic hex at the ceiling above his last position.

"Ah yes, the Vikings," Grindelwald's silky voice murmured, quiet in the rumble of stone. "They were rather proficient with strikes. Never could see why they abandoned staves. So much more powerful, if a trifle unwieldy."

Dumbledore did not answer. Grindelwald may have felt secure enough to exchange banter, but no duel of such import could convince himself of that. His eyes fell on a placard; one word spread across its breadth: _Museum._

Apparently the Germans used the same word as English did – and where there were relics, there were treasures. He Apparated to the sign, opening the doors with a single application of brute force, and slipped inside.

Cases stretched beyond sight, artifacts breaking the patterns in pleasing patterns. From just inside the door, he could see multiple objects long thought lost: the Sword of Damocles, cursed to kill the unsuccessful wielder, and a strange set of golden panels made of what looked to be pure amber.

"Do you like it?" Grindelwald appeared in a corner of the room, wisps of smoke floating around his form. Pure hate, the more dangerous, controlled variety, shone in his eyes. "I had you in mind when I built this place. Things you might appreciate, if you'd agreed to work with me. Do you see that priceless Helm of _Ægishjálmr_? Lost in a dragon's maw?"

Purple magic struck the wood, splintering its mass.

"Gone. The Throne of Kai Kuvus?" A massive artifact, carved eagles mantling their wings over its height erupted in flames under another curse. "Now finally lost to the ages. But you treasured knowledge over things did you not?"

Dumbledore cast a protective enchantment over his immediate area – what had he been _thinking_? "You would destroy the world if it meant no one else could have it, Gellart. You don't care about these _things_ as you put it, just that no one else may have them now."

Cold victory emanated from Grindelwald's smile. "And why should I not? You would have treasured the _Syballine Books_ , would you not? Seer magery made flesh – well, paper and ink. But here?"

Anguish clutched at Dumbledore's heart as another display erupted in unholy flame.

"Gone."

"Enough!" Dumbledore threw his power outwards, toppling displays while flinging Grindelwald into the far wall. Another sweep of his wand changed priceless artifacts into a battering ram out of legend, the fire-eyed face of a monster on its front. In an instant, the ram flung itself into Grindelwald, crushing the body into a wall – except the Dark Wizard had seized an ancient shield from the rubble, shattering the ram's head. But the rest of its bulk carried on, driving Grindelwald back into the hole, out into the tower proper.

More curses, and Dumbledore sent more artifacts after the first, layering his own magics over those of the original makers. A spear caught his attention, Celtic by the design, as it launched itself without help, turning into ten thousand spears as it flew – he added Unbreakable charms, with cold fire burning on their tips.

Launching himself after the spear he Summoned more artifacts, flinging them after Grindelwald. Others … he sent into the piles of rubble, made from his efforts before. A smile, frigid enough to freeze a demon's heart, crossed his lips.

Grindelwald responded with the reflexes of a far younger man. The spears would not miss – but they could not penetrate either. The ram-breaking shield protected him again and again – until Dumbledore stretched back into the museum, breaking the restraining barriers that shielded a copper cylinder. It responded to his magic, eagerly taking direction at a speed he'd _never_ seen before. It transformed as it flew, shifting from a tarnished-green pipe into a shaft of chaos too bright to see.

Dumbledore leaped back from the edge – just enough to avoid the impact rebounding up the shaft. A fraction of a second later, the same bolt of lightning flashed up, striking the walls. Each strike made the entire tower shudder; groaning from over-strained Portkey charms began to rumble. The walls began to shake, cracks appearing at critical structural points.

"You fool!" Grindelwald appeared again, blackened and smoking. "The Thunderbolt of Zeus? Five cities were sacrificed to make it!"

Dumbledore's wand had never stopped moving. The piles of rubble obeyed his latent command, Transfiguration bringing their forms into being, Alchemy making them permanent, and the artifacts granting them power.

The Dark Wizard's eyes widened, and he vanished again. A Nemean Lion leaped up the wall after him, adamantine claws digging into the wall. At the same time a large man-like construct, but covered in hair, leaped as well, landing two stories higher on big feet.

Dumbledore himself seized a line-of-sight position near the top of the tower, and Apparated. By the time he arrived, his wand was already spitting curses, his offhand adding more creations to the assault.

For a brief moment, he saw an artifact, glowing a faint orange-yellow, fall into the depths of the tower. Every time he tried to lock its form into his memory, it slipped, vanishing away from directed thought like oil on water.

Then the tower flickered once more, a devastating shimmer that revealed the outside world. Dumbledore found himself looking into the startled gray eyes of an American pilot. The name tag stated his rank to be _Major Sweeney_. Then the world solidified once more, and the tower shuddered into existence.

Grindelwald exploded next to Dumbledore, the Nemean Lion – now half gone – making weak efforts to bite.

Taken by surprise, Dumbledore reacted with an encircling hex, an Oriental variant that bound as much as it burned. To his surprise it seemed to hurt Grindelwald, before evaporating like everything else. He pushed again, creating a ring of ice. While crude it was imbued with the _rimfrost_ curse, freezing everything it touched. Another spell sent a careening artillery shell into the midst of the ice, shattering the construct he himself had made in random patterns no one could predict. The resulting fog clouded their sight for a moment, just enough time for him to erect the _Potentus Maxima_ , the ancient shielding spell used to protect the ancient city of _Byzantian_ , before it became known as Constantinople, and yet protected its newest incarnation as Istanbul.

Ordinary casters could not wield its power, but a careful study had revealed a method of circular renewal that refreshed the temporal effects without locking down towers. Dumbledore could cast it for a brief amount of time, compared to the millenia-old citadel, but bear the weight he could.

Once.

From the fog came a battering-ram of power, effervescent green meeting his silvered shield. The connection exploded in lightning, arcing their actinic flares in all directions save the casters, as if even the elements feared approaching their battle.

Dumbledore strained every last bit of energy into his shield. The _Potentus Maxima_ had sheltered an entire city against the worst entire nations could throw against its might, but its efforts against the Elder Wand had proven, in the end, ineffectual, as proven by Mehmet the Conqueror. But that had been an entire city, he was but a single wizard ... and a single strategy had been in the making since he'd known of his former friend's possession of the Wand.

Twisting, Dumbledore introduced an unstable quotient to the shield's rhythm, a tiny flicker of the wand to the left instead of steady concentration. Ordinary shields would absorb the fluctuation without pause, but then _they_ were designed for mobile sources. Architectural defenses demanded stability, which meant the shield would fail for a very finite amount of time ... _there._ He twisted again, out of the way of Grindelwald's curse.

His shield vanished. Not for very long, perhaps a heartbeat's worth. But it was long enough for Grindelwald to stumble, reliant upon the pressure provided against his attack. It was, perhaps, the only tactic that could work; they were opposites, consummate masters of their respective styles. An error, not mild or minute in the scope, was never part of the intended consequences. A simple mistake? From Albus Dumbledore? One of the greatest masters of true Warfare Sorcery in centuries?

Grindelwald's expression blanked as he stumbled one step. It was a tiny step, not very far at all. But it put the tip of his hand within the area once shielded by Dumbledore's power. An endless moment that lasted only as long as the air ceased to move, gray eyes stared into dark, one set saddened, the other uncomprehending.

Then the shield flickered back into place. Defenses designed in later times allowed solid objects to exit their perimeter, but every shield designed before the famed astronomers of Babylon held no such restriction. And the _Potentus Maxima_ had existed long before then.

Grindelwald's hand was severed at the wrist, dropping the wand onto the ground while simultaneously ending the stone Nemean Lion's existence.

For a moment, the two wizards looked at each other, Dark into Light. The Elder Wand lay on the ground between them, sparking impotently.

Dumbledore sighed. Then, with a quick motion he ripped a button from his robes, slapping it onto Grindelwald's suit. "Good bye, old friend."

The Portkey took effect, slapping the Dark Wizard out of the tower in an eyeblink. Dumbledore looked down at the wand, then around as the tower started its inevitable collapse. Heaving yet another deep breath, he stooped, picking up the wand. It sparkled, shimmering in his grasp while his current wand seemed to turn cold in protest.

"I cannot let it go to anyone else … perhaps?" Dumbledore tried snapping the Elder Wand. It resisted his efforts. A quick cutting curse gave the same result. "For safekeeping then. Until it can be destroyed."

Something silvery and heavy arced towards Dumbledore; before it could hit, he Apparated away from the tower, feeling something heavy enter his pocket.

Safely away from the tower, he turned to watch. Stones as big as cottages were blown away, landing to tumble in the village below, digging deep furrows. Other pieces launched skywards, expanding as they did so. Size-Expansion had its downsides as well.

Letting the rumbling crescendo build, Dumbledore turned away, weariness inherent in every bone. He stopped short though, at the sight of a full platoon facing him, guns at the ready. The leading figure looked familiar.

"Lieutenant Granger?" he tried.

The brown-haired man relaxed. "Sir. We were getting worried."

"Ah. Most kind of you," Dumbledore ignored the sounds of imploding magic occurring behind him, even as an errant spell soared overhead. "But we knew what this could have been like."

The Lieutenant shook his head. "Nossir, you've been gone for two weeks. Operation Valkyre worked splendidly, by the way. Germany is falling back everywhere, without _Him_ supporting every move."

"Two – weeks?" Dumbledore blinked. "But how would – oh. Oh _Gellart._ "

The guns shifted away, their owners lowering their guard. The Lieutenant made some signal, and they began to leave. The tramp of hundreds of feet faded rapidly under the last echoes of the tower's demise.

"Sir?"

Dumbledore finally turned back, looking at the ruins of what had once been an incredible work of construction. Countless workers would be needed: investigators, artifact experts, curse breakers – and they would want _him_ there, or someplace else supervising. But Gellart was gone, sent to Nurmengard, safe in a prison built specifically for him. He could live with that form of exchange. Dealing with paperwork would be a much more peaceful method as well, he hoped.

"Sir?"

"Hmm?" Dumbledore shook the cobwebs free. "Oh. Grindelwald always ignored some of the more basic rules of higher magic. The more power used, the fewer laws of science are followed. I hope there wasn't too much damage, I am not certain, but I believe we traveled through time a little."

The lieutenant's eyes bugged out. "Time travel, sir? Where, I mean, when?"

Dumbledore passed a hand through his hair, liberating it from his hat. "Some city called Nagasaki, Grindelwald's Eastern base. As to when, No idea. Not far, perhaps a year or two from now? A great deal of power was expelled – more than I could say, really."

A thought struck him. He'd forgotten, something had fallen in his pocket, had it not?

One hand dipped in, touching a cold something, and a very warm, fluffy body.

Faint cheeping emanated from his hands as he drew them out. "Fawkes?

The Phoenix, oddly satisfied looking, chirped, rubbing his hands with its soft feathers.

"Sir, if you don't mind, could I … hold him?" Lieutenant Granger gave him a half-pleading look. "I've always wanted to see what a magical bird felt like, and now he's …."

Dumbledore met Fawke's eyes. Assent passed between Wizard and Familiar. "Very well. Here."

While the muggle stood almost frozen, Phoenix in hand, Dumbledore turned his attention to the small object that had made its way into his keeping. It was a bowl, created out of what seemed to be silver, but did not have the feel of it. Dumbledore carefully poked at the bowl. Its latent power, strong enough to bypass _humming_ and dive straight into an _aura_ , met his touch. The note, written in graceful script pasted to its side bore a simple inscription:

 _Recreation Bowl, Atlantean origin. Energy-into-matter; locks after first item introduction._

A single note followed after, looking as if torn from a notebook. _"Seems to respond to wishes, or the desire first received. Gold? No, devalue currency. Basilisk venom? No, rare but not versatile enough. Perhaps a food item; perfect for withstanding sieges."_

Dumbledore touched the edge of the bowl once more, righting it upon the squat lower surface. By its feel, he could sense the reactive magics had already been used, leading to a single question: what did it make?

The bowl _thrummed_ , then gave an almost happy chime. Tiny objects, yellow crystal spheres appeared in its depths, multiplying until reaching the bowl's rim. A sharp, citrus scent stung his nose, a striking contrast to the stench of death currently surrounding him.

Throwing caution to the wind, he selected one of the objects, lifting it to his mouth. Lemon flavor exploded across his tongue, driving away the malodorous smells.

He looked at the ruined tower, then back at the bowl. By rights, the recovery teams would have to take it for classification – Atlantean artifacts were rare, and one that appeared to ignore the deepest rules of Magic?

 _"Perhaps later,"_ he pocketed the bowl once more. The lemon drops vanished as the bowl tipped sideways, just as he'd expected of an Atlantean artifact. _"It would be nice to have a souvenir that did not look like a wand."_


	6. Update

Just a note of thanks for Guest Reader pointing out a couple errors, esp in the copied Chapter 2 (oops!). I also rewrote part of the final chapter, it has been on my mind for a while, and this was the impetus to finish getting it up. Thanks, and enjoy!


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